


Protected

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: I'll take a tear with my smut, Junkyard Smut, M/M, Sexual Content, Smut, Smut needs feelings, canon warnings apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington have some junkyard bus sexual interactions.  Apparently I'm obsessed with this being their spot.----------His eyes are sparked with the kind of madness that only exists in the moments when the world stops tilting on it’s axis, when the planet stops revolving around the sun and the entire galaxy is put on pause.  When the only thing that exists and the only thing that ever existed is the softness of lips on salty skin and the tenderness of hands exploring the surfaces that have yet to be discovered and cherished.Steve knows Billy isn’t used to being cherished.  He’s used to blood and anger.  But Steve knows he has all the time in the world to show him.  Show him how gorgeous his body is, and how much more he’s worth than the words his father cemented in his head.Steve knows there’s something else under the bravado of Billy Hargrove.  And he’s going to find it.  If it takes years of taking him apart with his mouth and his hands, putting him back together again just to do it all over.  To build a thing called trust.----------
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Protected

Protected

The moon should be jealous. The world should be jealous. The world that doesn’t get to see Billy like this. Sprawled lazily on the dirty blanket they spread on the floor of the bus. Junkyard heaps and twisted rotten metal. Surrounded by jagged, sharp, rusty, and dangerous gems to some, trash to others. Protected. Here. From the outside world.

Steve leans up on an elbow, watching the lips curl into something resembling a smile as the smoke swirls languorously skyward. His finger rises, twists the whitened air and whooshes it towards the broken window. 

The smile turns smirk and Steve is certain he’s about to snarl wicked and mocking about the smoke offending King Steve’s delicate constitution. Before he can open his mouth, Steve’s lips are on his. Interrupting the world for a moment. Tasting like burned tar and paper, the undertones of the beers they shared, and undeniably Billy. 

All the wretched things that live inside Billy are nothing compared to the things Steve has seen in the last year. Billy doesn’t scare him. And he knows it. 

His hand slides over the wiry hair on his thigh, still spread open and taunting him by simply existing. A light sheen of sweat sprinkling his flesh, glistening off the golden hues of his being. 

Steve’s fingers catch, lingering on the sharp jut of his pelvis, thumb trailing across the hard hill of bone under the taut, thin, delicate skin. Goosebumps rising and chasing the pads of his fingers. Sliding across the soft, lax plain of his belly, finding his hardening cock for a gentle stroke. The breath is cut off in his throat at the simple touch, faltering in Steve’s mouth but it doesn’t stop his lips from pressing, tongue prying and jolting into the wet heat, the satiny surface of him. 

Billy’s hand has found the flat of Steve’s shoulder blade, resting there with the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. His other hand tracing a line up his arm, creating a chill that starts at the base of his spine, following the rough touch to the edge of his neck and twisting across his skull as Billy’s hand slides into his hair to draw the kiss even deeper. 

Every dent and divot of him under Steve’s hand feels like a place to be discovered, devoured. He’s breathing heavily already, can feel the tang of want flavoring the back of his tongue as the tip of it traces Billy’s lower lip and he pulls away. Following his desires, chasing every desire across every surface of golden muscles, flesh, and the expanse of sensitive skin. 

His fingers have found Billy’s chin, pushing his head to turn, offering access to his neck, teasing pressure across the meeting of human salt and Calvin Klein’s cologne. The hollow of his throat slick with sweat, and heavy with goosebumps that Steve chases with his tongue down the center of his body. Eyes flicking towards his face. 

He’s stubbed out the smoke, arm bent behind his head, propping his face to watch Steve work over him. That smile is something no one else gets to see, Steve’s certain it’s something no one else has ever seen. It would break the reputation. It would destroy the image. It’s Steve’s smile. That one that’s wicked and lustful, tame and trustful, evil but good, so good. His eyes are sparked with the kind of madness that only exists in the moments when the world stops tilting on it’s axis, when the planet stops revolving around the sun and the entire galaxy is put on pause. When the only thing that exists and the only thing that ever existed is the softness of lips of salty skin and the tenderness of hands exploring the surfaces that have yet to be discovered and cherished. 

Steve knows Billy isn’t used to being cherished. He’s used to blood and anger. But Steve knows he has all the time in the world to show him. Show him how gorgeous his body is, and how much more he’s worth than the words his father cemented in his head. 

Steve knows there’s something else under the bravado of Billy Hargrove. And he’s going to find it. If it takes years of taking him apart with his mouth and his hands, putting him back together again just to do it all over. To build a thing called trust. 

His eyes are still locked onto Steve’s as his tongue trails over the gentle rolling hills of his abs. Taking the opportunity to relish the taste of him. Fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking a lazy pattern, no need to rush. They’ve got all day. 

A groan exits his lips when Steve’s free hand slides up the back of his thigh, knees bent, locking Steve’s hips between them when he adjusts. Every muscle in his body taut and ready, wanting to pull Steve down, towards, closer, and into him. Wanting to rush, get to the point King Steve, he can see it in the flash of warning in those blue hues. In return he lifts his lips, a smile, letting all the cocky he can muster drip around the edges before he lowers his mouth, swirling the tip of Billy’s cock. Just once, drawing back to kiss around the crown, down the shaft and over to his groin. His hips are grinding, trying to force his point, silently commanding Steve to suck him dry, fuck the hell out of him and not make a show of it. 

He can feel his face twisting again, smug and teasing. Letting his gaze linger on Billy’s for a moment, feeling the pulse of heat in his core and the pulse of desire in Billy’s cock when he wraps his fingers around it again. 

His own smile is turning wicked, desires taking the edge of his vision and the rest of it narrowed down on the ocean of possibilities in Billy’s eyes. His fingers slip behind his balls, trailing over the softness of his flesh and finding it relaxed and lubed from the first round that just barely ended when he lit the smoke. Dipping a finger into his body, rewarded with an arched back and a desperate grind of his pelvis. His head rolling back into his own hand until his arm straightens when a second finger slides in easily beside the first. 

Steve’s lips meet the base of his cock, rock hard and yearning for more than just the tease. He turns his head to slide his lips sideways up the length of it, fingers easily grazing against the spot in his ass that makes his breath catch and open palm land hard on Steve’s shoulder, only to flail back against the bus seat, grab with a grip tight enough to leave finger shaped dents in the fabric, only to release, slap down on Steve’s shoulder and rise again. When Billy’s hand goes wild like that, unable to decide if a fist or an open hand or a white-fingered grip is the solution; thats’ when Steve knows he’s got complete control, utter and blind trust. It wets the desire on his tongue as he slides it over the tip of Billy’s cock. Smearing precum across his tastebuds, parting his lips and gliding down and down until his nose is buried in curly blonde hair, then pulling back again. 

A third finger dips inside of him, the hand fists and slams down on the bus seat. Steve watches every muscle in his body flex and flush, the stringy golden hues of him cupping the daylight pouring through the windows and broken glass panes. It’s enough to steal the breath from his lungs as he watches Billy’s body coil and uncoil. Wanting to roll against his fingers and drive into his mouth. 

Steve’s left hand traces across his stomach, pulling lightly at the barely there blonde trail of hair to his belly button, listening to Billy’s hissed breath at the prickling intrusion to his pleasure. Dipping around his belly-button in a mock show of what his right hand is doing, circling with his pinky, and watching the breath hitch in his belly, his ribs expand and hold. Flushed pinks and reds mottle his soft hues of sunshine. His hand slams down on Steve’s shoulder, the sickening slap of skin on skin nothing more than a complete turn on at this point. Steve feels his cock strain harder at the sound and drives his fingers deeper into Billy.

The groan is like a tree falling in the woods. Crackled and broken. His breath is panted, sweat gathered at the hinge of his jaw and dipped into the hollow of his throat. Catching the glints of sun. 

His delicate blond tendrils are glistening with sweat, mused with the first round and his own hand sliding into the roots to tug him back to the level of consciousness that affords a gruff order, “fuck me Steve.”

He knows Billy is half broken when he actually uses Steve’s first name. He’s a half broken horse, Steve knows it’ll only take one wrong move and he’ll be purely wild again. He never wants Billy to submit. He likes it that way. The wild unpredictability of him, but the trust that he’ll never trample Steve again. 

An order doesn’t need to be rushed. Even if he intends to follow it. At his own leisurely pace. 

Billy’s legs fall open when he removes his hand, a quiver in his belly and a soft moan parts his lips. Steve leans back, body weight on his heels, eyes on Billy as his hands move towards the condom box. Billy’s eyes are rolled shut, his flesh is covered in goose bumps and Steve takes all the time he wants to admire the view. His eyes crawl over every surface, taking note of the pattern of his breath, and the dots of sweat. Every hair and every scar. By now he’s nosed, licked, and sucked every one of them. Billy’s body is a road map to a place Steve will never get tired of visiting. 

His arms are both thrown over his head, his feet have come up to rest on Steve’s calves and his lips are pursed softly. His right hand slides away from his hair he was tugging on, without his eyes opening it darts out, takes hold of Steve’s forearm. Testing, feeling, knowing without the visual confirmation that Steve is doing what he’s told. 

The sound of the condom forces a deep breath, Steve watches it move through Billy’s body and he follows suit with his own inhale. Holding it as he lines up, adjusting himself between Billy’s legs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his chest, lips a gentle press to his overheated skin, a silent question.

“Yeah,” the immediate answer, his fingers tightening on Steve’s forearm and not releasing, not relaxing as he pushes himself into the heat of him. Matched moans and hitched breaths until he bottoms out. When his arm moves, Billy’s grip follows, bracing himself on his elbows tucked into Billy’s sides. His fingers pulse his directions into Steve’s pleasure seeking brain. Locked in to nothing more and nothing less than Billy. His breath, his tautness, his heat, his grip, the way it sounds when his lips part, his eyes open and Steve is drawn to his face again. 

Leaning over him, where he’s cradled in the worn out blanket and the golden tendrils of his hair. His lips turned up into the expression that only Steve gets to see. And his open eyes sparked, and glazed with the same thing. The only thing that can make them look that way.

A half-cocked nod. The okay to move. The okay to dip into his lips.

Billy’s fingers finally relax the death grip on Steve’s forearm. They slide up his arm, finding his shoulder and staying there. While his other hand lands on Steve’s asscheek, gives a tight squeeze, skates over it and falls to his lower back. Thighs tightening around his hips, heels digging into the backs of his knees now. 

He’s warm and slick with sweat. He’s soft-skinned and muscled-hard. He’s panting into Steve’s mouth with every thrust of his hips. He’s tight-gripped and loose-lipped. Kiss pinked lips and blue bruised knuckles. 

He’s a groan to match every thrust, and a squeeze to match every touch. He’s rough and ready and the only part of him is the softness that shows up only for Steve, the part of him that Steve hoards in his mind, memorizes every grunt and groan and whispered word of nonsense that dribbles from the corners of his mouth smashes against Steve’s, gathers them like treasure in the recesses of his mind where they’ll always be safe from the rest of the world. 

He’s a fist and flat hand slapping against Steve’s shoulder blade in the rhythm of Steve’s every thrust deeper and harder and further. He’s a grip too tight but not tight enough. He’s a moan so soft but not soft enough. He’s a body too sweaty to grip but not sweaty enough. He’s a wiry line chasing another wiry line and he’s everything Steve never knew he needed or even wanted until it was crowded into his space and threatening him with daggers from his eyes that couldn’t pierce the shield between them. 

He’s the push and the pull that’s swallowing every move Steve makes, holding it against the roof of his mouth, trapping it there with his tongue only to pant it out in a raspy breath and a hot curse. He’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, between everything Steve wants and could have. He’s all the things Steve doesn’t want but needs them regardless. He’s the broken nose and the bruised jaw. He’s the split knuckles and the shattered ribs. He’s the calm before the storm and the dust rising on the horizon, swirling across stained deserts and ripping Earth, through all the layers of stone and dirt and rock. He’s a swirl of pain and hatred and anger dripping from every sharp line and intake of breath. He’s a soft glowing ray of sun on the last drop of rain hanging off a green leaf and dropping to the ground. He’s the tear gathered at the corner of his eye. The one that Steve presses his lips against before Billy can flick it away and they both pretend it never existed. 

He’s the part of Steve that will have to remain in the dark. Rooted with twisted desires and unfulfilled passions. He’s the part of Steve that will always face the sun, cup the golden hues and throw sparkles across the surface of an ocean that Steve will never get tired of floating on.

When they breathe, it’s together. It’s a thrust and a grind. It’s a demand for more and the ability to give it. It’s the unbridled yearning rolling into a wave and throwing itself against shore. Only to recede and do it again. 

It’s shortened breath and quickened pulses, mingled sweat and drying saliva. The words stuck to the roof of his mouth and the warmth beneath his fingertips. It’s the feeling like his heart is throwing itself at his ribs for the final time and his lungs are filling with the salty sweetness until they’re overflowing. His tongue coated in the undeniable taste of Billy, crashing into his lips and prying them open. Gracing the surface of him and sucking his flavor as though it’s the finest thing Steve has ever tasted. 

He’s chasing the flavor in Billy’s mouth over that ledge when he collapses on top of him. Billy’s fingers trail his spine, caught on the edge of a breath and the overwhelming blur of tingling death against his body. 

Every twisted piece of metal, every hard rock and jagged cliff. Every dark corner and hidden demon. It’s all swirled into the Summer sky and glinting ocean of Billy’s eyes. It’s dimmed by the golden hues of his body and his private smile that keeps the world at bay when Steve lifts his head from his chest, slides his hand through his sweat slicked hair and hovers over him. 

The smile is white bright, blinding and burning into his corneas. With something soft around the edges. Something that only belongs to Steve. 

His hand is sliding up Steve’s back, finding the right hair to twirl around his finger, and the smile turns smirk. His wicked mouth opens, but Steve interrupts the words by pressing back into those kiss abused lips. 

Billy is a part of Steve. A part of him that he’ll keep hoarding, locking away and building up like treasure that no one else gets to see, or touch, or feel. All the gold and sapphires fit for a king. A king with a junkyard throne and a spiked bat sword.

**Author's Note:**

> That might be the lamest final line I've ever written.
> 
> You know the drill... stay healthy friends. Share it if you want, piss on it if that floats your boat. Leave positive comments and kudos :)


End file.
